On the twelfth day of Christmas
by Aria7
Summary: An 11 year old Snape and the meaning of Christmas. What is Christmas to a group of people who don't understand what Christmas is? Alternatively called as "On Christmas Day in the Morning" .


Disclaimer and authors note: Harry Potter is copyright of J.K Rowling, Bloomsbury publishing, Warner bros et al. no money is being made/earned from this story. This story has actually been semi-written since last year I have however only just completed it, hurrah. Any and all mistakes are mine as this fic has not been beta'd and in my rush to post I haven't fully checked its grammar so feel free to comment. Happy New Year everyone and a belated Merry Christmas.

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_On the twelfth day of Christmas. (On Christmas Day in the morning)._

_By Aria  
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Christmas, a time for renewal, the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ the Saviour of our Souls, son of God, he who died at Easter in order to save us from our sins. At least that's what his father always told him when they would go to his grandparents every Christmas. His mother would simply roll her eyes as he spoke, then smile, his mother was not a religious woman; she would celebrate and join in the festivities but she would not speak of the birth of Christ the Saviour, no that duty was left to his father, grandparents and all of his primary school teachers who insisted on going over the Christmas story every year no matter how much the children squirmed. Although he had to admit, playing in the nativity was always good fun -even if you were a sheep- well, they were good fun; he hadn't been in one this year, Wizard's it would seem did not know much about nativity plays, their experience seemed to stop at the gift giving, which was all well and good he supposed but it did take away a little of the well, magic of the day. From what he knew they didn't even understand who Father Christmas, that is Saint Nicholas was. Personally, he thought them deprived. Without knowing the reasons behind the celebration it diminished it, even his mother who believed in the mythos not one wit, still agreed that she enjoyed it more now than she ever had before. Although considering her family he couldn't exactly say that he was particularly surprised by this revelation.

This was to have been his first Christmas away from his parents. He had, certainly at first, been looking forward to it. A chance to spend time with his friends without the added distraction of homework but, as the festival approached he could feel himself dreading it more and more. As far as he knew every family he had ever met did something different at Christmas-he'd found this out by talking to Lilly; and listening to Petunia- and so now he dreaded to find out how the school celebrated the festival with only a few dozen students and yet fewer teachers. Would they all go to the Great Hall first and have breakfast or would they stay in the Dormitories and Common Room until late- missing breakfast- would the roast dinner be served at lunch or teatime? Would they even eat a roast dinner? Would they open presents before eating or after? Would a four way truce emerge; a cease fire on behalf of survival and their distinct lack of numbers? All of these things he wondered but none could he get a clear answer to. Not that he tried overly hard to get an answer to them, he supposed that he could always ask Professor Slughorn -Head of Slytherin House- for the answers, but that would attract attention and, he had no wish to do that; or he could ask one of the strange creatures who lived in the kitchens, House Elves he believed they were called, at least that's what _Hogwarts: A History_, had described as working in the kitchens and, his mother had mentioned something about House-elves once. He wished he'd gone home for Christmas.

It was easy at home, the routine he and his parents had adopted over the years, if a routine it could be called, was simple. First his mother would get up; she would then wander sleepily downstairs, still dressed in her dressing gown of course and, filling the kettle, put it on the stove to boil. Then his father would get up; he'd wander down -also dressed in his dressing gown- and go into the front room and rebuild the fire. After this was done, and only after this was done, would he be allowed to come downstairs. He would go into the kitchen first, where both his parents would be sitting, cups of tea in hand, and wish them a 'Merry Christmas' usually with a hug -even if his father did stiffen now that they were both older- and a kiss for his mother. He would then be hounded into the main room by his mother who would want to know what 'Father Christmas has brought us all this year?' His father would laugh and declare 'a lump of coal for a bad lad who doesn't know when he's supposed to help about the house.' His father would always laugh and smile at Christmas, even if he didn't during advent, even if the factory had been laying people off, no matter if he had been drinking everyday for the last two weeks, he would always be happy on Christmas Day. It was special.

They would all go through to the front room- cups of tea in hand. The fire would be roaring and sparks would be jumping about the hearth, filling the room with warmth, the curtains would be thrown open and sunlight would be just beginning to paint streaks across the sky. Their tree such as it was, usually small and usually missing most of its needles by now after being sat for two weeks in the same room as a burning hearth was decorated with glass baubles and small candles his mother had charmed to be safe and not nearly burn the house down with like had happened one year with the Lakes three doors down; although it had made for wonderful playground gossip at playtime. His mother would usher him over to the tree, she would sit on the chair beside it, curled up, her slippered feet tucked up in the folds of her dressing gown, watching with shining eyes as he would reach beneath the tree for the first present. That was his job at Christmas, it was his job to distribute the presents between the three of them. He would start at the front and then work his way back; his mother would always try to get him to open his first, his father would always tell him to wait until they all had one and then they would open them together. The first presents were usually from old Mrs. Jameson next door, a widow who always had a strange sense of present buying, last year she gave him a pair of socks, the year before a knitted hat, scarf and gloves, -which wouldn't have been too bad if they hadn't been bright orange- while his mother had received a long scarf -bright purple with orange spots- and his father a pair of thick gloves -grey, the most normal of all the presents. He wondered briefly if she'd bought him anything this year. Professor Slughorn had taken charge of all presents delivered by their families so he didn't know who he'd received them off this year. After Mrs. Jameson's presents would come the usual dull presents from his Prince Grandparents; although he had received a useful book from them once: _Quidditch through the Ages_ it was much more useful than his mothers old battered out of date copy, his father had frowned when he'd seen it but had been too busy trying to figure out why they'd bought him a penknife to fret too much; his mother had simply winked at him. After that, he was allowed to open his presents from his parents. There was always at least one pair of underwear and one pair of slippers, anything else was interchangeable.

When he had finished opening these presents he would run upstairs and duck under his bed pulling his presents for his parents out from their hiding place beneath the creaky floorboard, he would then wander carefully downstairs, his arms full, and smile at his parents and wish them a 'Merry Christmas' once more and then give them their cards and presents. He'd always made them cards, it was cheaper and easier and gave him something to do when he first got home from school. His father he always bought a large box of cigars, the ones he only ever smoked at special occasions and that usually took most of his money to buy. For his mother he would always buy her a box of her favourite sweets, she'd always had a sweet tooth, and she'd always give him and his father first pick out of the box no matter what they said. His mother would always pull him onto her knee then, or at least attempt to, sometimes he'd manage to get away to his fathers immense amusement, especially since if he did get away he would always pick him up and put him down beside her on the chair while he would go into the kitchen telling him to; "look after your mother and don't let her eat all of those sweets; our dentists appointments not for another two months." As soon as he was out of the door his mother would give him a big hug and then say: "quick Severus under the sideboard." And always under there would be his mothers presents to his father, usually a jumper and a new pair of work trousers well wrapped up in green paper.

His father would then come back into the room carrying a tray filled with eggs, often scrambled, sometimes boiled and six slices of toast buttered, the jam -a present from Mr. Wadsworth's allotment- sitting next to them, a knife balanced precariously on top of the lid. But dangling from his arms would always be the real reason why he disappeared to the kitchen- and the outhouse- his mothers presents would be in the gift bag wrapped, albeit haphazardly. His mother would always gasp in delight at this presentation, even if it was the same every year, he would slide back off her chair and taking the tray from his fathers arms sit in front of the fire facing them, eating his eggs.

"Oh Tobias!" His mother would always exclaim as she would open the presents.

"Merry Christmas, Eileen. Sorry for hurting you this year."- they would kiss then, his mothers eyes shining with tears. He bought her a necklace last year, a silver locket with a photo of each of them inside; she never takes it off. He always buys her an animal model, even though he smashed most of them last year when he was drunk and the factory had been laying off again.

After that, the present giving would be over for the morning, they would finish their breakfast and then it would be time to have a wash put on their newest clothes and go over to grandma and granddad's house- four streets over- for Christmas dinner.

His father would always ring the bell and Granddad would always open the door smiling broadly, sweeping Severus into a bone crushing hug, his mother would laugh ;'Dad, you'll suffocate him'.

His Granddad would laugh again squeeze him then push him into the house to 'go give your Gran a hug' before reaching out for his parents and hugging both of them.

He would run through the house to the kitchen, the backdoor flung open to the garden no matter if it was snowing, raining, or there was bright sunshine; the house filled with the smells of cooking and the late morning chill. He would shout 'Merry Christmas' to which he would hear laughing from the dining room and a voice shouting back:

"Merry Christmas, love. I'm in the dining room; Granddad keeping your parents?"

He would smile then, turning left and into the dining room -his grandparents lived on the new estate- the table would be set already. The best china laid out, the knives and forks shining in the mid-day sun, streaming through the window to the garden. Red and green, and silver and gold, the colours were always the same and his grandmother always made certain that everything was assembled to her liking, not even Georgie Wilson's family two streets over had a better display than his Gran; although Nell Clark's parents always dressed their house up nice, still even that would come second to what his grandparents would put on.

This year though he wondered what would happen. His Gran was sick, it was why he wasn't going home, Mum was looking after her and his Dad had decided that having an eleven year old underfoot was not going to be helpful. Gran was always the one who organised Christmas, she loved to, she would always be getting him to go around after school to help her with the decorating and the baking -mince pies, treacle tarts, cinnamon buns, Stollen, Chocolate Log, Christmas pudding made in July, the brandy butter that he was never allowed to stick a finger into and try if his Gran was near, but always tried if his Granddad was minding the oven, then Christmas cake made three months in advance so it would be ready for the big day. Stir up Sunday, the day his Gran would call everyone around for a roast just so she could get everyone to stir the mincemeat for the pies, and the chocolate ganache for the chocolate Yule log, swearing on her old fathers grave that it was good luck to do so. But here? Everything was made by House Elves, nothing was unique, everything was the same, perfect but not perfect because it was perfect. Even the decorations were put up by the House Elves and the people just seemed to ignore them, yes they were excited, but they just didn't seem to understand. He'd tried broaching the subject with some of his Housemates but had soon realised his error as the teasing had started and looks of disbelief had been thrown his way. They just didn't seem to realise that this wasn't just any holiday, this was Christmas.

He'd had a letter from his Granddad the other day moaning that it just wouldn't be Christmas this year. His grandfather had clearly tried his best at decorating but had fallen far short of his Gran's impeccable standards and had resorted to going to the Bakery up in town to actually get mince pies and the smaller cakes -his Mum was going to try her hand at the roast, but with the factory laying off again money was short. His Granddad was also bemoaning the fact that his only grandson was stuck in another part of the country away from his family on one of the most important family days of the year; worry for his Gran had also shone through no matter how he'd tried to hide it. He'd sent a letter back of course, the first time he'd tried his Granddad had sent one back saying with more than a little glee how Gran had walloped the owl with a newspaper for flying into the kitchen. He'd tried to put as brave a face on as possible, writing how lovely everything was and how the Professors were planning a Christmas party, Granddad hadn't been fooled he could tell, but it was the thought that counted and he'd sent his Christmas present up; at least he knew it wouldn't be badly fitting clothes since Gran hadn't been out to do the shopping.

He'd sent his own presents care of Roger Brant's barn owl, hopefully the stupid bird had found the right houses if it hadn't he'd be in for it; his Dad might be a Muggle but he'd taken to Howlers easily enough. But on Christmas Day, the one day of the year his entire family was guaranteed to be nice to each other, if just for appearances sake, he was going to be stuck in a completely different part of the country without access to a phone -not that his parents were even on the phone yet, his Dad had promised to get them hooked up soon but simply hadn't got around to it- so he couldn't ring his Granddad and wish them all a Merry Christmas. Mum had said it would be character building but then she'd never had to deal with the idiots in his year at school who were guaranteed to be annoying since most of them didn't have a clue what they were celebrating anyway. It would have been safest to try asking one of the other Halfblood children or even one of the Muggleborn's like Judy Walsh who was in Second year and Slytherin, although she rarely admitted to her blood status -a fact he could understand- and was liable to thump him if he asked her a question; which only left Cassie Stern out of the Muggleborn's he knew and could talk with, even if she was a Third year Ravenclaw. Hopefully Christmas at Hogwarts would be as magical and festive as his Mum had always told him, it was the time of hope after all; and as his Gran always said: "if you didn't have hope, then what do you have, Severus?"


End file.
